A Complement of Lovers

The Dating Game

1

On the ninth consecutive day of a cold snap in January, Lenore Sobel raced her red Jaguar along Fox Hall Road with the top down and the heater on high. She was leaving the elegant section of town—home of well-to-do sons her parents considered eligible for marriage—and heading for Arlington, stronghold of the young civil servant. Even in her own mind, she was slumming, but she was visiting Rodney Brody, which her parents had forbidden and, as always, she thoroughly enjoyed defying them.

People on the street turned to look as the red streak whizzed by. Lenore thrived on all the attention she could generate. In designer sunglasses and a red leather coat, with a lime chiffon scarf wrapped around her head and neck to protect her hair from the windblast, she looked like a million dollars and that was what mattered to her.

She zipped into a parking space outside Rodney’s ground-floor apartment and revved the engine to announce herself. He opened the rear door of the building and waited for her. Lenore took a moment to remove the scarf and fluff her hair into place before swiveling out of the car, careful to first extend her shapely legs so that he could get a good, long look. She went to him unhurriedly, suppressing a sly smile, and stopped when her face was six inches from his. For a long time they gazed at each other as their eyes filled with tears. Then they embraced passionately, lips pressing lips, tongue searching tongue, and as the music swelled, they entered the building and crossed the hall to his apartment. Rodney helped Lenore out of her coat and guided her to the sofa where they continued to neck.

For several minutes, all hands stayed high. Then, when he wanted to proceed further, he allowed one hand to fall to her knee and gently edge in the direction of the warmth between her thighs.

No, cried Lenore. She pushed him away and went for the cigarettes on the piano. If you loved me, if you wanted me, you’d ask me to marry you first.

No surprise, no need to react. This was the ritual response from a Jewish girl in 1962. Rodney knew the routine well. He responded, If you cared one whit for me, you’d be in that bedroom, flat on your back, helping me prove I can make you happy.

She tried to get a message into her eyes. "I know you can make me happy."

He laughed and shook his head. Lenore, you must be out of your mind. He rose from the sofa and entered the kitchen. I’m twenty-five, I’ve never been to bed with a girl, and you stand there and say you know. Well, I sure as hell don’t know.

Smoking lazily, she leaned in the doorway and watched him make a pot of coffee. He meant the world to her, and she didn’t understand why he refused to marry her. Lenore thought him so damnably attractive, she wondered why no other female had grabbed him and raped him by now. But she knew what kept her from doing it.

Where are your roommates? she asked.

It’s the weekend. My roommates get laid on the weekends.

On Saturday mornings?

I doubt they’ve gotten out of Friday night’s beds. He dried his hands on a towel and returned to the living room. While he put on an LP, she addressed his back.

Why don’t you ask one of them to help?

"Nick and Bart? You really are crazy; how do you suppose I could live with them after I told them I was a virgin?"

Go get a whore. Everything has a price. Buy what you need.

You know better. I tried that once, and it doesn’t work. Sex should have some meaning, and even if it ever gets to that point, I can’t predict the result. It has to be with someone I care about.

Someone you love?

Yes.

Marry me.

"Your price is too high."

They consoled themselves for their unhappiness over coffee. Lenore was buoyed by the knowledge that Rodney was taking this latest separation harder than she was. She sounded a strong note. What you need, my love, is to stop staring at the four walls. Get out and do something.

I know. I’ve been sitting here for two weeks, since New Year’s Eve in fact, trying to get up the courage.

Do you have something in mind?

Come over here. He crossed to the telephone bench where the Saturday morning edition of the Washington Post lay open to the theater section. In the center of the right-hand page was a small advertisement.

THEATER LOBBY

Open Auditions Today

Summer and Smoke

by TENNESSEE WILLIAMS

St. Matthew’s Court 2-6 pm

I didn’t know you liked to act.

I haven’t acted since high school. It used to be a great release. I saw the ad last Saturday, and I just watched it as the sun went down until it was Sunday, and then Monday came. I expect to stare at it this weekend, too. I haven’t got the guts to try.

Come on, Lenore said. I’ll take you.

Rodney dismissed the offer. I don’t even know where St. Matthew’s Court is.

I do.

Air rushing over the open convertible’s windshield whipped strands of hair into Rodney’s eyes and drove the cold through his fur-collared coat. Except at a yell, conversation was impossible in the speeding automobile. He glanced at Lenore, who was focused on her image—it was so cold she expelled white vapor with each breath. There was no use asking her to put the top up so he sank low in the bucket seat, feeling gray as the day, and pondered if it was all worth it. He seemed to have struck another stone wall.

The mold that had produced Rodney was stamped marriage, and his parents wondered why nothing was happening. He was too embarrassed to discuss it with them, or his roommates, or anyone. All he knew for certain was that something was missing, and he spent all his time searching for it—by himself and in secret.

He played a push-me, pull-you game with women that invariably endeared him to them, and when they got too close, frustrated them because he shied away, frightened he couldn’t perform. Lacking first-hand experience, he avoided all discussions with men about sex or, when he had no choice, joined in with pretended enthusiasm. He even stopped double-dating because every male he knew (except his college friend Gordon) had come of age and seemed genuinely interested in only one thing: screwing every female in sight.

Had someone asked Rodney point-blank what was wrong, and if he had been willing to take a brief hiatus from the false image he tried to project, he would have answered he had no earthly idea. His equipment worked; he certainly enjoyed the sensations of ejaculation. He even found it intriguing that no matter how he tried, orgasm couldn't be extended. To experience the same sensations, he was forced to repeat the same activity. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out that this design parameter was specifically targeted at survival of the species. But in Rodney’s case, it was unaccompanied by whatever triggered other men to seek female assistance to achieve climax.

Like most men of his background, Rodney had grown up wanting what his parents wanted for him: a wife, children and a vine-covered cottage. He saw intercourse as the last remaining obstacle in his path. He lived in hope that there existed a girl who would be beautiful enough to entice him, sufficiently intelligent to hold his interest, and courageous enough to go to bed with him. She would be the one to give him the push he needed, the impetus to get over that final hurdle.

It seemed to Rodney (after considerable thought) that every other male knew where he was going and how to get there; while he, like Lenore, would be perfectly content sticking to what they had learned in high school—kissing, cuddling and caressing—if he could trust it would be enough to ensure a happy marriage,

There were other considerations. He hadn’t been totally honest with Lenore. He said he needed experience but failed to say he felt nothing physical for her. She was attractive and glamorous, felt wonderful to the touch and looked great on his arm, but when he examined his feelings, he found no drive to possess her, to become one with her. It sounded confusing to him, and very depressing.

But it didn’t matter much what he told Lenore because she, like the other girls he dated, never believed a word he said. The mold she came from was also stamped marriage, and nice Jewish girls were brought up to espy and decry all attempts to get them into the sack before they wed. Lenore had decided many breakups ago that what Rodney had going for him was a good shtick. All this crap he was always handing her was clearly a well-developed ploy to steal her virginity. Besides, she knew he was lying—he got hard when she kissed him.

The red Jag fairly flew across the 14th St. Bridge and headed up Connecticut Avenue. Making a right onto Rhode Island, Lenore hung an immediate left into the alleyway beside St. Matthew’s Cathedral and screeched to a halt outside the theater. They entered the open double doorway at the corner of the building, and Rodney got his first look at Theater Lobby. In the harshness of daylight streaming through the doors, it presented a shabby and unfriendly visage.

A young man about their age, in a suit and tie, introduced himself as Hargood Ames, the managing director. He handed Rodney a form to fill out. Lenore took one as well but held it unused on her lap. Rodney nervously searched the room and found there were others waiting, form in hand, scattered in rows of seats surrounding the stage on three sides. His eyes locked onto a girl sitting directly opposite. From that moment on, he thought less and less about Lenore. She faded from his thoughts like a dissolve into another scene.

His new interest’s name was Diane Berkheiser. She was dressed in a gray suit with a white silk scarf at her neck, a picture of elegant refinement. She gave the definite impression of not belonging in those surroundings; it was she more than anything that made them appear so shabby.

Chemistry happened between Diane and Rodney: they found each other the most fascinating objects in the room. Stealing glances at each other and pretending they didn’t see when their eyes met, they each determined not to be the first to speak.

Rodney was extremely nervous at his audition. His voice quavering, and with muscles locked and shaking from tension, he botched his reading badly. Luckily, local theaters were always short of young males, so Hargood Ames took a chance and cast Rodney as Archie Kramer, a one-scene role at the end of the play. Diane didn’t get the lead (the frosty and frustrated Alma), but Hargood persuaded her to play Rosa, the hot-blooded second female.

During a month of rehearsals and a week of performances, Rodney got to know everyone in the cast while Diane remained aloof, speaking to no one unless she was onstage. They kept eyeing one another; they kept silent. Then one day, accidentally tripping over each other in the narrow passage backstage, Rodney murmured, Excuse me. She mumbled, Pardon me. They looked at each other and broke into laughter.

So you can speak, he said.

I’ve been waiting for you to notice me.

I’ve noticed you. I think you’re lovely. There was an embarrassed silence. Diane lowered her eyes from his face. A surprising sense of empowerment flooded over him. What are you doing Sunday?

Going out with you.

Where may I take you?

To the Phillips Gallery. I’d love to be with you there.

And after, to El Bodegon for dinner? My God, is this me talking? He could hardly believe it; he wasn’t pretending.

Come by at noon. I’ll be waiting till then. She swept away into the darkness of the theater.

Rodney had never been to the Phillips and he was pleased by her choice. He liked its location near Georgetown, the mansion itself, and the way the rooms were laid out—small and intimate—with a loveseat in the center of each, just made for young lovers to contemplate art.

They were recognized: "Aren’t you two of the actors in Summer and Smoke? Oh, we just loved your performances. Could we please have your autographs?" Diane smiled, accepted pencil and paper, and signed her name. Rodney admired her composure and followed suit. When they were alone again, they giggled over it. The incident sent the balloon they were riding soaring to unexpected heights.

Dinner was perfect: the paella was perfect, the wine was exceptional. Serenaded by Spanish guitars, they munched tostadas and sipped from their glasses. Their eyes were locked together, their hands were clasped. Promptly at seven, they left for the theater, kissing and promising to meet again after the show.

Just before curtain, she called him over to a peephole the actors used to spy on the audience. See. Look there, in the third row.

Which one? Whom do you mean? Rodney saw a crew-cut football type, sitting alone in the third row.

That’s my boyfriend. The Clod. He’s out there waiting for me every performance. She pulled Rodney’s face to hers and kissed him while she pressed her body tight against his. God, she whispered, holding him, I’m glad I found you.

Rodney caught his straw hat as it fell from his head. Easy lady—he chuckled softly—you’ll muss my lipstick. They laughed together. Knowing the Clod would be disappointed spiced their pleasure.

When the performance was over, they ducked the Clod and, finding a light snow had fallen, decided to walk to Diane’s house in Georgetown instead of taking Rodney’s car. By the time they arrived, they were frozen. Rodney lit the fire and Diane made toddies. In front of the fireplace—the only light in the room—was a bear rug. They lay on the soft fur and snuggled, caressed, necked, and petted.

Oh Rod, I’ve never felt about anyone the way I do about you.

I feel the same. It’s like a dream. He pressed forward, pushing Gable for all he was worth.

Rod, Rod, not all at once. Save something for next time.

They clung to each other even after he had his overcoat on. He crooned into her ear, It’s three o’clock in the morning.

I don’t know how I’ll get to work tomorrow, she whispered. But I don’t care…hmm…hmmm…kiss me, kiss me again. They kissed and parted for another hour, repeatedly professing undying love. When Rodney walked back to the theater to get his car, he didn’t feel the biting cold. He was sure this time would be different; this time he would make it.

The following night at the theater, Diane passed him without speaking: it was as though Sunday had never happened. He was mystified, hurt, apologetic; but she made it clear she wished only to avoid him, and she offered no explanation. A thousand times Rodney asked himself what he had done wrong: had he offended her? had he gone too far? had he gone far enough? In the dryness of his mouth he tasted the frustration of opportunity slipping away—opportunities like Diane that didn’t happen every day.

Rodney sulked for a while and the next night, when he was sure he could talk objectively about it, he phoned Gordon in New York and unloaded his frustrations on him. Everyone had a friend to tell everything to, and Gordon, unique among Rodney’s acquaintances, was willing to act as his sounding board.

That Rodney could confide in him was the result of Gordon’s having unqualifiedly proved his empathy. Right after they graduated from college, class of ’56, Gordon announced himself homosexual. He would have liked to tell his friends earlier he was gay but he dreaded having to explain the new word to them. Understandably, half his acquaintances dropped him on the spot, sure that his like of them was based on lust for their bodies; to their credit, the other half didn’t bat an eye. Although Rodney belonged to that latter half, he merited no praise for broadmindedness because his motives were totally ulterior: Gordon was suddenly safe. Having suffered secrets in silence for so long, Gordon understood secrets, so could be trusted not to divulge Rodney’s.

Gordon saw things a bit differently. He had been patiently waiting nine years for the barren sands in Rodney’s life to shift one way or the other. Until that happened, he would continue to listen to Rodney’s interminable rants, as he did now about Diane Berkheiser, and about Lenore Sobel before her, and six other failed romances before that. He could almost sense from his friend’s voice that Rodney was running out of rope, and would soon be forced to come to a decision about who he was and what he wanted out of life.

2

The part of Alma in Summer and Smoke had gone to Pauline Wiggins, a painfully thin redhead who persisted in wearing ruffles and bows, giving something of Baby Snooks to her appearance. She was not Rodney’s idea of an Alma but, dressed by the costumer instead of according to her own tastes, the result was surprisingly credible. And she was a good actress, which was why Rodney noticed that something had gone wrong with their scene. Each night Alma lost some of her reserve and became more and more familiar with Archie; Rodney found he was playing the scene on a bicycle, constantly pedaling away from her.

Pauline was a newlywed (although the way she chased Rodney, the news came as a surprise to him). She had snared Claude Wiggins, a successful corporation lawyer in his fifties. He had seen her in an Octagon revue, and a business associate introduced them. Within a month, they were married. He bought her a dollhouse in Georgetown, and for weeks she raved about it. Those darling little beams in the ceilings. I simply have to duck every time I come to one.

At the housewarming, none of Claude’s friends was there—Rodney wondered if Claude had friends—but all the theater people were there, and several of his wife’s homosexual entourage. Pauline considered herself mother confessor to homosexuals. All the queers love me, she was fond of saying. They sense a maternal instinct, and they know that in my house they are absolutely accepted.

Rodney brought Gordon to the party—he had invited him down from New York for the weekend to see the show. Pix, the theater’s stage manager, opened the door for them and immediately commandeered Gordon. Rodney darling, welcome. And thank you for bringing such a beautiful friend. Come in, dears, but watch your heads. I wouldn’t want your friend to muss a hair of that tawny mane.

The two men ducked through the entrance but found, once inside, they were unable to stand erect. Rodney’s bent head just cleared the ceiling while Gordon had to drop to one knee. Pix was small; he stood at full height and dominated the scaled-down room.

I don’t believe this, Rodney said. It’s like being in the funhouse at an amusement park. Gordon, meet Pix. Stage manager, prop man—you name it—jack of all trades.

"All trades, darling; you just name it. Pix shook Gordon’s hand, a Lilliputian greeting Gulliver. I saw this gorgeous male in the audience tonight but I never dreamed he belonged to you, Rod."

Rodney scowled. He doesn’t belong to me, Pix. He’s my friend.

"Oh, is that all? Then you won’t mind my taking him and introducing him to my friends."

Gordon asked, Can you take me to a place where I can stand up?

Better than that, my dear. Pix affected a leer. I’ll take you to a place where you can lie down.

Like many tiny, attractively maintained houses along the Potomac’s locks, this one had been built at a time when a five-foot-six man was considered tall. The ceiling height needed only to clear the wigs that the occupants sometimes wore. Although modernized and remodeled many times, it was considered poor form to raise the ceilings for fear the houses (and the area) would lose their charm. The present owner was a six-foot-two-inch lawyer, but not a very smart one so far as Rodney was concerned. Either that, or Pauline had bewitched him.

Rodney found the party and the bar on the second floor in a large room carpeted in tatami mats. Pauline rushed over, pushed a drink into his hand and escorted him to a corner. Fortunately, he passed the new girl, Julia, on the way. Willing to try anything to escape Pauline, Rodney cried aloud, Mother, where have you been all my life?

Son! she shrieked in reply. Julia pulled him to the floor and threw her arms around him. Everybody in the room laughed, and somehow Pauline was brushed aside. Lots of jokes were available about Julia playing Rodney’s mother in the next play and, since Rodney liked the sound of Julia’s voice, he stayed around and listened to it most of the night. It served to keep him out of Pauline’s way.

Because of his height, Gordon remained on the floor and waited for conversation to come to him, while Pix happily supplied him with drink and food. Nobody could blame Gordon for not mixing; he was the only man in the house taller than Claude. Even Rodney preferred to stay seated because he thought it weird to feel his head bumping the ceiling when he moved.

All evening Rodney expected Pauline to call everyone together to explain why she had done it to Claude. At the very least, he expected Claude to explain why he had gone along with the gag. But Claude went on serving drinks in a crouch, scampering on two legs and a fist like a trained chimpanzee, while Pauline exclaimed how absolutely mad she was for the whole thing, and what a perfect angel Claude was to buy it for her.

Inevitably, Pauline trapped Rodney into a private tour of the house. In her bedroom she closed the door and in the middle of the room drunkenly announced: None of these other pricks matters one fuck to me. Only Rodney, it appeared, had sufficient depth of soul to plumb the depths of hers. We two, she said, you and I, we’re two of a kind. We know what we want and we’re gonna get it. Yessir, it’s you and me, Roddy boy, even if you don’t know it yet.

Rodney was queasy; his head kept striking the ceiling. He had drunk enough liquor to make the room spin. Only Pauline was standing still.

What about Claude? he stammered in defense.

Who, him? She waved her glass, slopping gin on the carpet. I get rid of him when the time comes. He knows it. He’s no kid, you know.

Why me?

Listen… She grinned and brought her elbow around to poke him in the chest. …there’s gotta be laughs along the way. I like your style. With a little training, I think you’re gonna like me a lot.

Rodney panicked; he had never heard a female talk like that before. His face contorted and something slipped sideways in his stomach. I have to throw up, he rasped.

Pauline glared. She opened her mouth to blister him just as Julia burst through the door. Come on, Rod, we’re getting up a game of charades and I need you. She grabbed him by the arm and yanked him from the room like a vaudevillian getting the hook.

When Rodney saw Pauline again that night, she didn’t appear to remember the conversation—she didn’t seem to remember anything—which was fine with him.

At two a.m. Rodney extricated Gordon from Pix’s clutches and they drove back to his apartment. He was anxious for the hours they would while away in conversation. He always looked forward to Gordon’s visits. It was simple to arrange because his roommates invariably slept away on weekends, so Gordon could sleep in their room.

But this night was different. Gordon wasn’t himself. He was testy, fidgety, and worse—unsympathetic. You have some interesting friends, he said.

They’re not my friends. Just people to be with at the theater or at a party. Try spending an evening with just one or two of them, or without liquor. It’s more depressing than being alone.

Oh, I don’t know. One or two seemed to have possibilities… Look, have you got any ginger ale or something? I’ve quite a thirst.

Rodney went to the kitchen and brought back a ginger ale for Gordon and a glass of milk for himself. He had discovered in college that milk was what he required after a night of drinking to settle his stomach and prevent a hangover.

Who, for instance?

That girl Julia can’t take her eyes off you. Do you date her?

"Julia? Hell no. She’s new. She plays my mother in the next play, Invitation to a March. Not my type at all. Wide-eyed waif, long and flat-chested. That’s not the type I go for."

She goes for you.

Isn’t that something? I wonder why I haven’t noticed.

Gordon looked at Rodney and sipped slowly at his ginger ale, waiting for a spark to jump some gap in Rodney’s mind, but tonight his patience was wearing thin. He made a decision.

I’m not staying here tonight.

Rodney blinked. You’re not? What do you mean?

Rodney, we’ve known each other a long time. We’ve been through a lot together, but tonight I have to take care of myself. He put his glass down. I’m only human; I can’t always talk about life as you seem able to. I have needs which you are incapable of satisfying…or unwilling to.

What the hell are you saying?

What’s Pix’s address?

Pix? There was a starting hint of indignation in Rodney’s voice alongside the surprise.

Rodney, humans are isolated in their own skins. And we both agree that’s hell. The only solution to the human condition is to reach out and make contact. Even if you form an imperfect relationship, it’s better than none at all.

Rodney shuddered. But Pix…he’s small and scrawny, like a monkey. The very thought’s repulsive.

That monkey is a sensitive person, and he’s lonely, too. Do you think you have a monopoly on loneliness?

My God, Rodney sneered, you’re six-foot-three; you must outweigh him by a hundred pounds. The idea of the two of you in bed together is ludicrous. I mean what can you do for each other?

It’s clear there are some things you still don’t understand. Gordon smiled wearily. I made my decisions a long time ago, and I stuck to them: my kind of life rather than no life. But you—time stands still for you. Ten years have passed and you’re still knocking up against the same walls, asking the same questions, and not hearing the answers. My advice to you, Rodney, is to reach out. Make the commitment now, before it’s too late. Anyone. But do it now.

You sound like a goddamned agony aunt.

Gordon shrugged. I’m sorry; I am what I am. He rose from the sofa. May I have the address, please?

Rodney located his address book and wrote it on a slip of paper. Don’t you want to call him first?

He’s expecting me.

Rodney’s brow furrowed. You mean you made a date?

Not exactly. If I don’t go, he’ll understand.

That made no sense to Rodney. But it’s so late. The buses have stopped running. Anyway, you don’t know much about Washington. How can you get around?

There are things called taxicabs.

Rodney looked at the floor. Take my car, he said in a whisper.

Thank you, Rod, dear. I knew you’d think of it sooner or later. May I have the keys, please?…And Rodney, Gordon said as he stood in the doorway, try to understand. I’m not doing this to hurt you; I can’t help myself just now.

I do, Gordon. I do understand. He lied to be polite; he just wanted the conversation to end. When will you be back?

By ten, for breakfast.

I’ll have it ready.

Rodney closed the door behind Gordon and leaned his forehead against the cool metal surface. He stood there for a while with his eyes closed, then walked through the empty apartment and looked at the bed in Nick and Bart’s room that Gordon wouldn’t be using. He undressed in his own darkened bedroom while the headlights of passing cars on Columbia Pike cast moving shadows on the walls. As he was putting his pajamas on, an anger welled up in him and he tossed them savagely into a corner. Naked, he slipped under the covers, aware of how strange it was to feel sheets against bare skin. For a long time he lay awake watching light patterns on the ceiling. In frustration, he turned over and began to move against the sheet.

He conjured up a vision of himself having intercourse with a nude centerfold out of Playboy, his massive body all but obscuring hers. He delivered powerful strokes, his movements rapid, and she called him big man. But after a while, the image soured; he couldn’t see his face, just the broad expanse of his back; and he couldn’t see more than the thigh of the girl. He wasn’t really sure what was going on between them, never having experienced it.

He shifted the image to a prison yard where a milling crowd of naked men, each more virile than the last, jostled each other in crowded confinement. In a distant corner of the enclosure, a continuous stream of men waited in line to screw upended women. Rodney couldn’t see it; he just knew it was happening. With that fantasy, he achieved success.

Gordon was back at ten a.m. They